


Reflect on it

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [113]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Arguing, Complicated Relationships, Domestic Fluff, Escaped the Constant AU, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29301402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: A few moments of time where, long after leaving the Constant, Wilson and Maxwell get a visit from Winona and Charlie.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve), Winona/Genevieve (Don't Starve)
Series: DS Extras [113]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Reflect on it

**Author's Note:**

> This incidentally follows the same timeline as ' _There is an end to this_ ' and _'lack of_ ', though a good 10+ years in the future.

Normally Wilson was the one who washed up after dinner, but this time he might have dozed off at the table. Jolting awake after his head almost slipped out of his arms onto the table, a brief flash of _"oh god I'm going to land in my food"-_

But his plate wasn't there, table clear, and off to the side towards the kitchen he could hear the water running and the quiet, clear and shifting sounds of dishes being taken care of.

For a moment the man sat there, blinking blurrily, then rubbing his eyes, before he straightened up and shook himself more awake. It has been a long, rather exhaustive day, but that didn't mean he should shirk his chores.

Standing up, taking a deep breath of air, steadying himself from his brief doze, Wilson stretched as he set the chair back to the table. A last sweeping look over the dining room had him pause; it was cleared and clean, a meticulous air to it, something about it stringing through his mind in a soft way he found hard to identify.

A small smile did end up tugging at his lips when he peeked into the kitchen, pausing a moment to take in the sight.

Maxwell stood off by the sink, back turned towards him, washing the dishes, unhurried, unbothered, completely at ease in his movements. The tall man had seemed a bit...melancholic, when Wilson had got back to the house, but he had mentioned something about the gardens and the state of the porch so there was that assurance that he hadn't stayed inside all day. Wilson had been a bit too fatigued to ask him more about it, so the conversation had eventually dwindled into somewhat companionable silence.

He only had the focus to stir something meatballish together, Maxwell helping along without being asked, and now here he was, cleaning up when Wilson had fallen asleep on the table. A bit embarrassing, really, but Wilson was too bogged down by the hard day to really find a care in it.

As Maxwell went about rinsing a plate Wilson snuck his way into the kitchen, making sure to not bump into any chair or the small table set to the side, before he crept up behind the other man.

For a moment he did pause, watched his partner continue as if without a clue, before Wilson cleared his throat and noticed, right after, the slightest pull of a smirk on the man's face.

Maxwell hummed at him, already clued into his presence, and Wilson found it easy to just lean forward, wrap his arms loose about the other man's sides and clasp around him, just under his ribs and chest.

"...Thank you for doing the dishes." He mumbled against the old man's bony back, taking a deep breath and relaxing drowsily at the contact and warmth, the familiar smell of his partner.

"Hm, don't mind me." Maxwell answered, voice quiet but clear, "Just finishing up a chore of yours you were not going to get to."

"Pff, if you woke me up I would've." Just holding to the other man like this, leaning his weight a bit but not too much, feeling Maxwell move and shift as he continued to wash the dishes, was a rather soothing experience and Wilson closed his eyes and let himself enjoy it.

"You need your rest, pal."

"I can sleep when I'm dead…" murmured Wilson, relaxing in the steady slow rocking of his partner, the rise and fall of his steady breathing. He didn't quite notice the brief pause, hesitation and pondering of his words, but all Maxwell ended up doing was answer him with another hum of soft sound.

Time flew by quickly, or maybe he just never noticed how close Maxwell was to finishing up, but the sound of the tap turning off, the last clinking of dishes before quiet silence, seeped into his semi conscious mind and Wilson blurrily blinked awake as he realized that his partner was finished.

He hadn't moved, not even a step away from the sink; all that had changed was that Maxwell had laid a hand atop Wilson's, light, wrinkled damp skin, thin fingers overtop and tangled with his own.

No words were said between them, for a few moments, as Wilson blinked his eyes and fought off the urge to just fall asleep then and there, he knew he was a bit too weighty for the old man to hold him, or carry him anywhere, but the kitchen was still warm and the light soft and he very much found himself enjoying being right here, right now.

And then Maxwell shifted, a light nudge to his arms, and Wilson relented his grip and straightened up, stretching and biting back a yawn as he brushed his hand through his hair.

It surprised him when Maxwell turned around, another's touch as the old man's fingers brushed his own, then drew its own path down to his cheek, and his sharp face was well masked over, dark, murky eyes unreadable, but Wilson relaxed from the suddenness of it and very easily followed through himself. He could feel Maxwell tense up, just for a brief moment, and then relax as his calloused hand trailed up his neck, curled around to brush through his thinning hair before cupping the back of his head and guiding him down.

Wilson didn't close his eyes but Maxwell did, when their foreheads connected together and stayed there. Maxwell still had his hand cupped to his cheek, and his own was pressed lightly to the back of the old man's neck, and Wilson closed his eyes for a moment and enjoyed the shared contact.

He liked this, a lot more than he'd ever admit, and over the years he's grown more and more comfortable in showing his contentment with his partner more brazenly. 

A few minutes passed between them, quiet and soft, warm, before Wilson opened his eyes once more and drew back. 

For a moment there, he was sure he had caught sight of those dark eyes open, looking over him in a soft, careful manner he didn't get to see very often, before Maxwell looked away and his face fell back into the usual neutral, almost scowl like expression.

"We should head to bed early, get some rest for tomorrow."

"You may do so, Wilson. I have plans for some light reading." 

The sentence ended there almost abruptly, as if there was more to be said there, but Maxwell had turned away from him and wasn't offering anymore details to it.

Wilson frowned, watched as the man adjusted the dishes in the drainer, watched as he fiddled about with things and tried to look as if he was busy, uncaring, and wondered when it became a norm between them to not share more than the bare minimum. 

"...Well?" Maxwell had looked back at him, narrow, wrinkled old face drawn in mild confusion, a hint of exasperation even. "If tomorrow will be so draining for you then I suggest you head to bed now."

Wilson watched him, really tried to read him, but that has been getting harder and harder as of late and the warmth of the kitchen seemed to lessen the longer he waited, so instead he crossed his arms over his chest and cut to the chase.

"I had invited Winona and Charlie over for tomorrow."

"...you what."

Deadpanned, lacking much of a tone, though Maxwell had stiffened up, a tense freeze of his shoulders. He had been pulling his gloves out of his pockets and now held them tight, old wrinkled hands gnarled over the leather.

Wilson, however, was having none of that.

"I had asked them if they wanted to visit yesterday and this morning Winona messaged me that she had a day off tomorrow. Charlie and her should arrive a bit after noon and will stay for dinner, so that is why I wanted to not stay up too late tonight." Maybe it was a bit rude to not give Maxwell much warning, but Wilson also knew from experience that doing so would lead to a very unpleasant arguement - it had happened that time Wes had sent a message asking if he could visit, it had happened when Woodie had met Wilson out on the roads near town and mentioned something about passing by but wanting a brief conversation, and it has happened multiple times now when the two sisters came over for a bit.

The only ones who've not caused any such troubles were the old man's own nieces, and when Willow and Wigfrid brought around Webber. Even with the two womans own general dislike of Maxwell it had been a pleasant evening then, and having the children visit helped lighten up the natural gloominess of his house in Wilson's general opinion. 

Maxwell always seemed to fare better afterwards as well, less snippy and grumpy, so it seemed a win win.

Right now, however, Wilson could see the other man was currently debating on whether to start something or not, his jaw grit tight, a half snarl on his lips as Wilson met his murky glare with a much calmer, collected look. He let a few moments pass, an odd silence that he wasn't feeling very comfortable with and niether did Maxwell look happy with it, before Wilson heaved a sigh.

"...It's been a while and I just wanted to invite some of our friends over to talk to, Max."

"Do you not have enough people to talk to while you wander about the farms and help imbiciles with their unsound mechanical nightmares?" Maxwell muttered this low, quiet and grating with bitter irritation, not looking him in the eye as he pulled his gloves on, flexing his hands in somewhat stiff motions.

_"Maxwell."_

_"Wilson."_

"Look, I don't understand why it's such a big deal to you. I just want to chat with the others, and I thought you'd enjoy doing so as well. Don't you want to see Charlie?" 

A couple of years ago that last line might have been a little too much, a pulled back punch that wouldn't have ever left Wilson's lips, but those wounds have long scarred over and he knew very well how much better the two's relationship was now. Still a bit rocky, hesitant at times, but Charlie did not ignore him any longer and Maxwell spoke up in her presence now, and their friendship had very much healed a good bit compared to what it had been within the Constant, or that first year out in the real world.

Wilson watched the other man, watched as his face drew into a look of concentrated thought, debate, before Maxwell heaved a rattling old sigh, shoulders falling low again.

"I suppose I...I do." He shifted, thin weight from one foot to the other, and his arms crossed over his chest almost protectively, a stiff look as he grit his jaw, still not looking at Wilson. "...I haven't seen her recently, have I?"

"It's been a few months, Max." Wilson went to his partners side, not too close but enough to be acknowledged, and Maxwells eyes flickered to look at him for a brief moment before closing, taking in a deep, wheezing breath before letting it out in a whisper thin whistle. 

"Then I apologize for arguing against it. I did not…" he trailed off a moment, eyes still closed, brows drawn tense, before he shook his head and cleared his thoughts. "I would have liked a bit more warning, perhaps, but you are right. I would like to have some variety in conversation for once."

That was said with a hint of a tone shift, a cautious tint of humor, and Wilson played along with that, nodding his head as he carefully leaned against his partners side.

"That would be nice, I agree. Someone other than the same old man rambling a bit about this and that all day into my ear, sure."

"Pot calling the kettle black, pal." Maxwell huffed, but his stance untensed, a vague flicker of what had to be a smile tugging on his aged face. "I am sure I now know more about tractors and grain and cows than I ever wished to know."

"And I know more endings for books I never had an interest in reading then ever before, so I think we're even."

"I suppose I should call for a truce?" Maxwell hummed, and the mask had slipped, fallen as his old face softened up, that warm look that has been leaving his face more and more often coming back around as Wilson leaned a bit more against him.

"I'll accept a truce, pal." Wilson answered back, smile tugging on his own face, and he took a moment to lay his head against his partner, eyes closed, a faint nudged turn so that his face nestled against the old mans collarbone and throat, his suit jackets collar line loose and casual. No tie for today, and the worn fabric probably needed another good professional cleaning sometime soon, but Maxwell tilted against him, accepting the contact as the both of them relaxed against each other for a few minutes.

And then Wilson poked his hand against Maxwell, looped his arm together with the mans crossed ones, and he gave him ample time and slow hinted movement before Maxwell started to go along with him, the two heading to bed.

***

When Wilson was woken up that night, room dark and air quiet, warm, he had the intuition to know exactly what had disturbed him.

Maxwell had sat up by his side, the covers and thick comforter still bundled up over the both of them, and even laying down and blinking away the blurry fuzz of sleep Wilson could feel the older man as he trembled. Hunched forward, arms crossed firm about his chest and hands clawing tight holds to his sleeping garments, and Wilson laid there a moment and listened to those rattling old, far too familiar wheezes.

It was the faint huff, a choked down sob, that jolted his mind more awake, the warm weight blankets and soft comforts of the bed trying to lull him, but another whistling noise, suffocated down as the old man shivered even harder, made up his mind fairly quickly. Maxwell didn't react much when he sat up, Wilson brushing a hand through his greasy, tangled up hair and squinted through the darkness to his partner, but he did flinch when Wilson's hand made contact with his arm.

"You alright, Max?" 

He already knew the answer, but then Maxwell stuttered in a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and when it was released the old man's shaking seemed to have lessened somewhat. Wilson helped it along, hand rubbing comforting circles as his touch drifted to Maxwell's back, the bony notches of his spine and clear cut, sharp hitches of his shoulder blades, just barely held together underneath thin pajamas. 

"F...fine." Maxwell sucked in another breath, through his teeth as his lungs rattled, and Wilson shifted a bit to lean against his side, eyes not able to see through the darkness but still able to feel that faint warmth, the fragile heat of another body against his own. For all that the old man did nowadays, he never seemed to gain enough weight to be as warm as he could be. "I am...I am fine."

"Nightmare?"

"...Dream." 

Both men fell into silence, Wilsons eyes downcast as the soft darkness of his room swam around, slow and warm, his hand still rubbing patterns to that bony spine, Maxwell quiet and still, his rasping sullen breaths and own hands still holding himself in a self hug.

After a moment, the old man took another deep breath, a shudder through his thin, too tall frame, bony limbs shivering as his head bowed, and when he spoke it was softly, near silent, to the point where Wilson had to tilt his head close, lean against his shoulder just to hear.

"I...it is hard, but I think I am...forgetting."

His rasped breath drew to a hush, a stuttered, exhausted exhale, and Wilson pressed the palm of his hand to that bony spine, a comforting pressure, before withdrawing his arm back.

Leaning back ever so slightly, not nearly enough to pull their contact away from each other, hip to hip, side to side, only the thick blanket a bare barrier between them, Wilson blindly reached out, fingers outstretched as he bumped his partners arm.

And then drew down, gently nudged at bony elbow and crossed arms until Maxwell shivered and relented, a deep exhale making him go a hint limp as Wilson tangled his hand to his partners, holding together.

"That's not such a bad thing, Maxwell." He said, quietly, a low murmur as he blinked in the general direction of their held hands, the darkness warm and comforting and so very different from the dark he had once had to survive with. His calloused, work roughened fingers threaded with brittle, aged bony ones, the brief brush of a thin, scarred wrist and hanging loose fabric sleeve, and after a moment of quiet Wilson could feel the old man shift, lightly tug at where they held hands - as if to peer down at their shared hold, if only for a moment.

"...I should not be forgetting the past." Even as he said it Maxwell's fingers had started to move, jutting bone of a thumb, skin soft and thin and wrinkled, rubbing simple little circles to the space between his own thumb and index, a light squeeze that Wilson went along with. "I...I _cannot_ , forget."

"Maybe," Wilson hummed, letting his head lean to his partners shoulder, sleepily blinking his eyes to the dark and relishing in their shared warmth, "but it doesn't need to...to haunt you, anymore. You've lived it already. I think it's okay to take a rest now."

"A rest…" murmured Maxwell, a sluggish hint to his voice, an exhaustion to it that showed as the old man ever so slightly started to lean against him in turn. "I...I think I would like that, a rest. I'm so very tired."

"Then sleep, Max." Wilson carefully blinked himself a bit more awake, at least enough to help guide the old man back down into the bedding. His own movements were getting wide, clumsy, but he was able to tug up the bedding and its thick, warm comforter, wiggling ever so slightly as to be more pressed up against his partner's side, and when that was situated, his hand still being held, Wilson let a simple little sigh escape him. "Tomorrow morning you will feel better."

"You...do you promise?"

Wilson paused, gaze blindly turned to his partners face, unable to make it out in the warm gloom, but he could feel when Maxwell slowly pulled at his hand, raised ever so slightly, as if to peer ar it, and he could feel the old man's other hand, his hesitant, cautious touch.

Warm and fragile, soft and thin and so very brittle, and Maxwell's well aged fingertips pressed along his own, touching every callous, every faint scar and nick and scab, petting to his roughened fingertips and pausing, staying there for only a few seconds before continuing on.

In this darkness, even warm and inviting, a comfort of familiarity between each other, Wilson drowsily stared in the direction of his caught hand and decided that yes, it could be difficult, not seeing those claws and talons and shadows and fuel there instead.

He tightened his grip, rough skinned fingers threading with soft wrinkled ones, clasping together with a firm grip that seemed to ease a soft, weary sigh from Maxwell's lungs. It was enough, to spur on Wilson and let him flutter his eyes closed as he tilted his head, felt Maxwell so close, held together with him.

"Yes, I promise." Wilson's own voice had lowered, growing tired, and judging from how the old man had seemed to relax, only holding Wilson's hand now, rattled breaths evening out, he could guess that Maxwell was even more drained than himself. "I promise, Max, that tomorrow will be better. I am sure of it."

Maxwell hummed, a low, groggy sound, and Wilson blurrily felt his partner shift, turn his head to press his nose to his hair, his hands tightening before loosening, the vague sensation of long, thin legs tangling with his own, before the old man finally settled with a heaved, raspingly stuttered deep breath. 

He answered back by burrowing forward, letting his hands be held, letting himself be lightly tugged against warm, familiar company, and, tired out and very, very sleepy, Wilson nodded his head against his partners thin chest, a steady knocking pressed just so against his ear, a personal song for him alone.

"Tomorrow will be better, Max, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day…" 

Wilsons voice trailed off, falling into sleep as one hand, freed from a loosening grip, circled around the old man's side and set a limp, loose hold to his bony back. 

Both men held tangled against each other falling into respective sleeps, coaxed and assured and together, so very much together in their quiet, deep breaths, shared inhales, exhales.

They'll both meet tomorrow, greet it, and it will always be better than the day before.

***

"Winona, can I ask you something?"

"Well yeah, sure."

Wilson leaned back against the kitchen counter, gaze fallen to the floor as he thought over his next words carefully. The woman next to him, having straightened up from checking on the cookies, pulled off the oven mitts and set them aside, hardened face open and friendly, and after a moment he was able to get the right words out.

"Has it...has it been difficult?"

"What do you mean?"

"For you and Charlie." He had raised his eyes, glanced over at her, but now he felt he sounded ridiculous and looked away, pressing his back against the counter, hands tightening over the edge then loosening, a distracting pattern as his gut turned uncomfortably. 

He didn't like asking these sorts of things, but the last few days had been pressing on his mind and there weren't many people he knew that he could turn to about this.

"...You asking that cause it's been hard for you two?"

"I…" Wilson rubbed at his face, calloused hands then going to brush through his hair, finally heaving a sigh as he shook his head. "I don't know. I can't..I don't know how to tell."

Winona had gotten an odd look to her face, a sort of sympathetic and hesitant understanding, and Wilson looked over at her with tired eyes as she stood by him, leaning back against the same countertop. 

She hadn't looked tired earlier, Wilson knew, but now there was a sort of wear on her, face drawn with hints of wrinkle lines, dips and faint freckles that had grown darker as she aged. 

Maybe he just hadn't noticed at the door, Wilson thought, but Winona looked almost as tired as him.

"It's kinda difficult, yeah. Not as bad as it could be, or like it had been in the past, I guess I can say that much." She huffed her own sigh, the woman's presence a heavy, filling feeling as she leaned her head back to look at the ceiling. The trademark bandana hadn't been there when Wilson had first welcomed her into his home, but she had it on now, wrapping up her hair and keeping it out of her face as she helped about the kitchen.

He'd need to thank for that later, Wilson thought; he wasn't like Maxwell, baring his guests from helping the host, but taking charge of dinner had been very nice of her. With the other two out on the porch, smoking and talking too quietly, too softly, Winona had then offered her help with dessert and Wilson just didn't have it in him to refuse.

It's been a rough past few days.

"Charlie and I are doing okay, if that's what you're really asking. Haven't fallen on hard times or anything, job's going swell and all."

"That's...that's good to hear." Wilson went quiet, gaze falling back to the floor.

The silence between them held for a little while, a few minutes, before Winona suddenly shook her head, huffed another sigh, this time with a bit more weight to it.

"That's not what you were asking though, was it." Her tone didn't make her words a question, more of a statement, and after a few moments Wilson nodded in surrender. "Yeah, that's what I sorta thought."

It was quiet again, a semi hesitant, companionable moment as the woman thought over her own words, before she began to speak once more.

"There're good days and bad days, though like I said, it's not as rough as it had been. Most of the time things go smooth." She paused, hesitant, as if wondering whether to share more information, before deciding to have some trust in him. "I work a lot, had a lot of overtime these last few months, so I have to watch for burnout pretty carefully. Haven't had much time to really talk to my sister, you know? Charlie's doing alright though."

Wilson listened, head bowed and eyes on the floor, the tile still clean, the dust having not settled on it just yet. Idly, in the back of his mind, he decided that he should be the one to clean it next; Maxwell has been taking his chores without warning as of late.

"That therapist gal doesn't tell me everything, not as if she should, patient confidentially and all that, but she's a great help for it all. Did I ever tell you that I haven't gotten a single nightmare since the start of this year?"

"Uh, no, I don't think so?"

Wilson raised his head, blinked over at her, and something from his expression must have come off as funny because Winona's face broke into a smile, shaking her head as she chuckled.

Her somber eyes didn't seem to match her outward mirth.

"Therapist thinks it's the overtime, but I'm pretty sure it's just how good of a job she's doing. And it's been at least a month now since I had to calm Charlie down from a fit." Winona sighed again, the humorless air about her seeming strained for a moment before she let it go, and she looked away, leaned her head back to look up at the ceiling. "Didn't think a quack like that would help, but I'm glad you and Wes convinced me to take Charlie to one. It's been a great help, really; don't think those first few years back would've gone good had we just tried to rough it out."

Wilson was quiet, eyes cast downwards once more, and a discomforted feeling rose within him, finally breaching his throat, and he just couldn't...he can't keep ignoring it, can he?

"I feel like I should've...I should have followed my own advice."

Winona looked over at him, but he didn't glance up, wasn't exactly feeling up to meeting her gaze as he shifted his footing, another wave of uncomfortable bad decision making knotting up in his chest.

"...Why didn't ya find someone for you and Max?"

That just made him feel even worse, and maybe he shouldn't have brought this up, stirred up waves, but Wilson really needed someone to talk to and it's been too long, trying to sort it out himself. He can't keep burying himself with his work.

He can't keep ignoring how his partner had grown quieter and quieter as the days passed by, and he can't keep pretending that everything was fine.

"Because Maxwell didn't want one." He spoke plainly, no matter how it sort of felt as if he was throwing the other man under the bus, but it was the truth. "He doesn't trust anyone out here, no one but me and you and everyone else from back...back then. Since I'm the one around all the time, I'm the one he talks to."

"Then why not find one for you? I don't want to offend you or nothing, Wilson, but it sort of sounds like you need someone to talk to."

"...I thought I would be fine." Wilson said, in a quiet almost whisper.

Neither of them said anything for a few moments after that, lost in thought, and Wilson's shoulders fell, inch by inch, as he internally struggled with that admittance. It wasn't as if he never needed help, or had difficulty knowing when he needed to speak up about it, but...but he had been so sure of himself. Even through the confusion of the first year, not even able to set a foot up the hall towards the attic, living in a house full of other people, just as scarred and displaced as him, Wilson had thought he had enough confidence in himself.

Maybe it had been because it was his house, his home, even with everyone here crowding around seeking comfort from each other, trying to find out the year and organize and think and start to see a future for themselves that had no ties any longer to the Constant. After that first year, as everyone started to find footholds, started to see a life ahead for themselves, Wilson had been just the same. Maybe he'd never really _leave_ , no matter how many ideas and thoughts and vague, dreamlike Knowledge sometimes graced him in his few nightmares, but Wilson found that the nearby village was much more accepting nowadays, and after some shenanigans involving the law and some very unpleasant letters he had to address about his deed of property, which he did, in fact, still have, it wasn't too bad of a life to live anymore. No more monsters, no more shadows, no more beings beyond understanding pulling the strings; just Wilson and the world spread out before him, taking baby steps towards finally being able to breath and see and _live._

...Maxwell, however, seemed to have a hard time from the start, and that has never really gone away, has it?

"...If you don't mind me askin', why's Max having a hard time? It took Charlie a bit, a couple of years, but she got some help and I've always been there for her, and now she does little shows at rec centers and libraries when she's feeling up to it. She's not a kid person, but she still likes entertaining them with stories and plays." Winona suddenly let out a laugh, an almost soft bark of a chuckle that died into a faded smile, eyes distant in memory. "I thought she'd be long over it, but my sis still loves the stage. Though I think she always wanted to be the center of attention, not the stagehand."

"I...I _am_ happy for her, Winona. She deserves it, after everything that happened…"

When he trailed off the woman gave him a look, he can feel it, but Wilson didn't meet her gaze, only found himself crossing his arms, shoulders drawn tight and something curdling in his chest in an unpleasant, unhappy way.

"...So, why doesn't Maxwell go do something like that? This town's small, but not _that_ small-"

"He tried." Wilson winced as the words fell out of his mouth, not meaning to interrupt, but when he looked up Winona didn't look offended, only a solemn curiosity, worry and concern on her face. It made him feel...incompetent, and Wilson quickly looked away as he continued. "There's a small bookshop, and the library, and even a little town square area, just big enough for festivals and maybe a performance or two. I haven't really been down there recently, but it's a quiet town. Events are few and far between."

He paused, thinking over his words, before shaking his head instead, eyes closing and face pulled into a discomforted frown.

"He took the initiative, went out himself to secure room for a show or two, even bought a few things, or made his own out of what we have here. I was trying to figure out a source of income for myself, so I didn't pay much attention at the time." His voice hesitated, words slowing, but Wilson forced himself to continue. "It only lasted a few months. It took me even longer to notice what was wrong."

When he went quiet again, eyes still closed, still feeling that curdling knot in his chest, the twisting of his gut, Wilson almost flinched when Winona laid a hand on his shoulder. An offered comfort, silent and patient, and after a moment he leaned into her side, trusting in her previous companionship from ages gone by and now nonexistent.

...It's been a bit, since he got to see or talk to the others.

"When he tried again later I had to talk to him - the walks to town were tiring him out, that constant back and forth, and when he talked about his dwindling audience, about how his hands just didn't listen to him, how sometimes he forgot how a trick went, how the snickering and side glances were getting to him, I...I had to tell him that maybe his performances just weren't what they used to be." 

Winona didn't comment as he had to take a moment, a steadying breath and swallowing down that discomfort, that unhappy helplessness, a lump in his throat as he tried to pass off wiping his eyes as just an itch, nothing more emotional than that.

"...Hell, I haven't ever seen a singular show of his either. Never once in my life have I ever seen the Amazing Maxwell in action, at least not on stage!" That admittance somehow made him feel worse, damn him for being so emotional, but with someone he considered a true friend letting him lean on her for support it at least didn't feel strained or unwanted. "..I feel like I said something wrong, back then, that maybe if I had just kept my mouth shut things would be different."

"...was it really wearing on him that bad?"

"He was exhausted, all the time. I didn't know what it was, I still don't, not really, but it really felt as if it was killing him, going out and doing that, then coming home and not looking even a hint happy from it all." Wilson shook his head, god did he feel tired, and Winona had wrapped an arm around his shoulders, let him lean against her more fully, and the comfort of another person listening to him, really listening, helped more than he had ever thought it would. "...It didn't make him happy, even though I could see he was really trying. I don't know, maybe after everything that happened, after everything that had been, maybe...maybe it wouldn't ever make him happy. I know he still wants to be on the stage, but I don't know if that is really what he _wishes_ for."

Suddenly Wilson laughed, a sharp, rough sound, shaking his head as he scrubbed at his eyes.

"I don't think I ever knew what Maxwell wanted, Winona, not even in the Constant. I don't know if Maxwell knows either, and that just makes everything worse, doesn't it?"

Winona had brought him into a hug, firm and heavy and so very different from how his partner usually wrapped him up, tight and sharp and clingy, and Wilson didn't want to acknowledge it but he was very much crying now, feeling just absolutely _terrible._

"I have my own life to live but I wanted to help, I wanted him to have something besides just me and this damn house, but I can't just tell him to go out and do the only thing he knows when it doesn't make him _happy_." He had ended up hugging her back, needing that stability, needing some sort of assurance, something, _anything_. "If he doesn't know what to do with himself, how am I supposed to help? If he doesn't know what makes him happy, _how am I supposed to make him happy?"_

It was quiet, as he silently cried against his friend's chest, and Winona let him, no judgement as she patiently waited for him to let it all out. When he eventually fell into a lightly trembling calm, drained and tired out, feeling so goddamn _helpless_ , she spoke up.

"...Wilson, I'm gonna be blunt with ya, okay?" When he nodded, still unwilling to pull away, she heaved a sigh and shook her head, voice threaded with concern and yet a solid focus to it. "I'm not any sort of therapist, so I can't help you answer those sorts of questions. I don't know Maxwell very well, not like you and Charlie do, not in that way. Sure, I like to think we're friends, but we've all heard him and how stubborn he is with his "acquaintances" bullshit."

That made Wilson actually laugh, a hiccup of a sound as he wobbled out a reply to her.

"He- he still calls me that, too."

"Not in bed, I bet." Winona poked him in the arm when Wilson huffed out an exasperated huff, sniffling as he pulled back and got himself situated, scrubbing at his eyes, not quite looking at her just yet. "Look, Wilson, the point is that you know him better than almost anyone else. I wouldn't be surprised if ya knew him better than he does himself. He's a finicky bastard, but I'm pretty damn sure he's _your_ finicky bastard."

"Ha ha." Wilson deadpanned, but his lighter tone gave him away as he shook his head. "Should I take that as a compliment?"

"I don't know, should you? Like I said, you know him pretty damn well; all I know is that he's a prickly old asshole who probably thinks he got more than he ever should've deserved."

"You think so?"

"From how he sometimes talks about you, it sure seems like it."

Wilson went quiet at that, looking away as he sighed. He felt drained now, deeply drained, as if getting all that out, crying about it to someone who wanted to listen to him, has hollowed him into a shell of his former self. Maxwell listened, sometimes too well, Wilson often found himself wondering if They were still around because the old man oftentimes seemed to hear things no one actually spoke aloud, but he shut down when the topic went places that were too sensitive, too close to home.

"...I don't know what to do, Winona."

"What have you been doing so far?" She met his gaze when he looked up at her, serious and calm and listening, still listening, and Wilson looked away, fought off the urge to scrub at his watery eyes again, to not sniffle as he heaved in a breath, let it out slowly before answering.

"Work, mostly. I don't usually end up far, and not for all day, and when I'm back here I work on anything I had set up previously, some experiments and the inventions I'm still tinkering with." He shrugged, a different feeling taking over the drainage now - something too similar to embarrassment, shame even, so he tried to shrug it off, ignore it all. "Maxwell spends his time in the gardens and house, or walking the paths in the forest. I go with him, sometimes, but lately he's been giving me that look of his that means he wants to be alone."

Wilson turned away, a quick glance around the clean kitchen, and found solace in the melancholy it brought him. When he had been living alone it had been far messier - a part of him wished he felt better, that it was taken care of nowadays, but the reasoning for that didn't ease his mind.

Maxwell cleaned because he had nothing else to do, not because of Wilson. 

And Wilson could hardly wrap his mind around not having anything to do, every day. The thought, of not being able to do his work, his sciences, or even worse, not being able to find his own happiness in what he loved…

Well, it wasn't a good thought.

"I feel as if I should be doing more, but I don't know what. My work takes all my time, a lot of my energy, I'm tired when I get home and only get to relax a bit with a few things before I have to head to bed. I can't even stay awake very long anymore, I just get...I get too tired." He blinked, sudden thought entering his head in a sneaky, horrific way, and his gaze jumped back to Winona, voice going a hint strained. "Is that what's wrong? Am I overdoing it somehow, Winona you know all about burnout so you should know-"

"Gonna stop you there bud." She had raised a hand, shook her head, but the serious look on her face seemed to face into something more...sympathetic, a hint lighter in humor as she asked her next question.

"Wilson, how old are you?"

That stopped him, his train of thought going shrill silent from almost jumbling down into wondering if the reason for all this was _his fault._

"I..well I'm nearly fifty now." Recognizing his own age somehow felt harder to grasp than the stress of what he had to confront earlier, and Wilson scratched his head, tried to ignore that flashing feeling, inclination of bone claws instead of rough fingertips. There was embarrassment there, too, but Winona didn't give him time to ponder on that.

"And Max, how old is he?"

"I, uh…" That took longer to remember, to think of. Years may go by, but age just wasn't something he thought about all too often. "...a bit over sixty, I think? We don't really talk about that or celebrate anything, why're you asking?"

" 'Cause I'm almost forty years old, Wilson, and even I know some of the effects of getting old!" 

Winona laughed, a deep barking full sound, and it seemed to help clear the air as Wilson stood there, blinking and feeling rather forgetful.

When he finally did speak, the woman swiping at her eyes and heaving a sigh, smile still pulling on her face, his own tone had lightened somewhat, not as dragged down as before.

"..Is that what this all is, then? I'm tired just because I'm...getting old?"

"Heh, if only Wickerbottom was still around to give you a talking to. She had some good points back then, living a life over and over for that long; I thought she would've paid you a visit ages ago, helped clear the air a bit."

"She...mentioned it, in a letter, but it arrived days after her funeral."

"Well, damn then." Winona shook her head, a solemn feeling about her, but it wasn't heavily melancholic. Wilson felt it too - a distinct feeling of someone long gone, remembered and not forgotten. 

It's been a good many years since the old woman had passed on, and by now the sadness has faded into something soft and fondly reminiscent. Wilson knew it still weighed heavily on Maxwells mind, the few times they talked about Wickerbottom the conversation usually dwindled into a stunted silence as the old man seemed to get caught on the thought of mortality, but every year they still found time to meet with the others and pay a visit to her grave.

Maxwell wouldn't say anything there, not in front of the others; Wilson has stood nearby when everyone had dispersed after goodbyes, quietly watched as the man read aloud to the gravestone a few chapters from books he had picked up from the library.

Sometimes Wendy joined him, a joint reading time, shared with someone long departed. It made Wilson feel...feel a certain way, but he didn't have the words to put a name to it.

"...So, is that the reason, then, for all my worries?" He didn't sound confident, but Winona heard him out. "Is Maxwell like this just because he's...gotten older?"

"I don't know what to tell you, Wilson, but age does some funny things to you. I'm holding to my job for a few more years, pile a bit more to my retirement before I can leave, and then I'll be able to take care of my sis and Genny without worrying about money for hopefully the rest of our lives." Winona sighed, and she leaned back against the counter once more, looking tired but not stressed out, not strained by him and his woes. "If things keep going how they are, then that's pretty far in the future for us. Everyone gets old, Wilson; it's just that we're the only ones around to know what it's like to be brought back to relive it all again."

Wilson nodded, slow and thoughtful, and his head was still sluggish and he still felt...helpless, maybe, but talking it out was helping more than he ever thought.

"I can't tell you for sure that everything troubling you is cause of the years going by though; bad days sometimes just don't have a real visible trigger." She shook her head, tone shifting a bit, a hint saddened even. "Some days are just not meant to be good. Sometimes I can't get through to Charlie. Sometimes I have to ask Genny to stay away for a couple of hours. Sometimes she has to call my work, tell them I can't come in for that day."

Winona shrugged, but there was no bitterness in her, only a sort of acceptance that Wilson could just barely feel, barely understand.

"I...I know what you mean, about the bad days." He looked away, crossed and rubbed his arms, though the shivery expectation of claws has long gone away, only his own rough worked hands. "I just...I feel like they are getting worse, and I don't know why. I don't know how to fix it."

"It's not really something you _can_ fix, Wilson." Winona looked at him with sympathetic, understanding eyes, and he heaved a sigh as she pat his shoulder, that thread of familiar companionship strengthening. "My sister's still my sister, and I'm still me. Yeah, somedays it feels wrong, sometimes someone says something off, or you see something that doesn't look right. Sometimes your shadow lags behind you, just a little bit, and no one around notices and you feel all alone in the world again."

Wilson had raised his gaze, looked her in the eye, and Winona looked tired, looked sk much more aged than the last time he had seen her months ago, but her voice had the same warm strength to if as she always had.

"But then you get home and someone's around that sits next to you, listens to ya, and the next morning everything makes sense again. I don't know if blaming time is going to do it for you or Max, but you have each other and that's better than getting old all by yourself."

Wilson nodded, hesitation in the action, and he was listening to her, he really was, but his voice still wavered either way.

"We have each other, yes, but I don't...I don't know if that's helping." He paused, something struggling fitfully in his chest, and he had to close his eyes, force the next set of words out of his throat, because Winona was _listening_ and he didn't know when someone else would listen to him again and he needed to get it out. "I don't even know if Maxwell _wants_ to stick around."

"...he thinking of moving on or something?"

"...Something...something like that." 

There was silence, at that, and Wilson bit his tongue, held his breath before letting it out. It wasn't too hard, to parse through his words, and yet he still worried, still stressed on it all, on what Winona might take from it-

"...Yeah, I...I've had to talk to Charlie, about somethin' like that."

Winona's voice had grown somber, weighed down by memory, by faint afterimages of grief, and Wilson blinked open his eyes, looking over at the other woman as she turned her head away, looking out at nothing in particular.

"...It's not something I'm comfortable talking about, Charlie's privacy and all, but...I get it, Wilson, I really do." When Winona turned her gaze back to him her eyes were saddened, faintly lost in thought, but she had an assuredness to her voice that helped steady him. "Sometimes you just gotta do what you believe you need to do, and hope for the best. We'll all pass away someday, no denying that anymore, but none of us need to speed that along."

She then turned away from him, composing herself quietly, and Wilson floundered a moment before laying his hand to her arm, his own offering of support as she rubbed her eyes and took deep, steadying breaths. 

Then she suddenly turned around, too quick for Wilson to react, and wrapped him up in a hug. 

A much warmer one than before, only a half moment passing before he answered back with his own hug. Not nearly as strong as hers, or as firm, probably not even half as comforting, but Wilson pressed his head to her shoulder, pat her back, and hoped she didn't notice the tears that had sprung to his eyes once more.

When he was let go, both taking a step back to get some space, to get a handle on things, Wilson rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat, looking away for a moment.

"Thank you, Winona. I...I really appreciated talking to you, about all this, and you didn't have to listen but you did, so. Thanks." A pause, and then he chuckled, a quiet sound, a release of tension and stress yet not leaving him as drained and hollow as he had been earlier. "I wish I had something to give you, something better than my words, but all I have are the cookies in the oven and you helped make those!"

"Don't sell yourself short, bud, I did only half the work. You were the one running the show!" She shook her head, her own laughter, quieter this time, escaping her for a moment. "But don't worry about it, Wilson. Everyone needs someone to talk to sometimes, and I hope this helped."

Wilson nodded, just about to speak once more, when the ovens shrill beeping alarm suddenly went off. It was enough to make him jump, but Winona only laughed, turning away and putting the oven mitts back on before slowly cracking open the ovens front. A wave of heat, and rather comforting, delicious smelling air, came out in one gusting roll, pumpkin and honey and cinnamon, and Wilson let out an appreciative hum as he leaned over her shoulder looking in. 

The sizes of the cookies were a bit inconsistent, but they were not too flat, nor too thick, and when Winona pulled the sheet out Wilson leaned back, watched from the side as she set them atop the stove to cool.

For some reason it brought to mind something he had certainly missed, and Wilson very quickly tried to rectify that.

"I, uh, Winona, I forgot to ask, how is Genevieve doing? I can't believe I didn't ask about her, I feel as if I'm losing my manners the less company I keep over time-"

"Don't worry about it Wilson, she's doing fine!" Winona laughed, looking over at him from where she was examining the pumpkin cookies before straightening up, taking the oven mitts off once more. "Got a job at a better place, more benefits than what I even got with a senior position. She would've come with us to visit you two, but she doesn't have many days off yet, saving them for emergencies."

Wilson nodded, a smile on his face even though he's never had much time to get to know the other woman, but then Winona leaned towards him, a completely different looking smile beamed at him as her voice dropped low.

"Gonna tell you a secret, but you gotta keep it hush from my sister." When he nodded, even made a show of raising a hand and gesturing zipping up his lips, one side to the other, Winona took a quick glance around before digging into her pockets.

When she pulled out her hand, a ring set in her palm, Wilson blinked at it stupidly for a moment before realizing its significance.

"Oh, uh, oh!"

Winona grinned at him as he floundered a moment, wondered how exactly he was meant to react, but judging from her shake of the head and low laugh, putting the ring away, his somewhat confused excitement was expected.

"You and Genevieve, I hadn't thought, I didn't even realize-"

"We've been living together near ten years Wilson, you never noticed?"

He was already shaking his head, focused intently on the happiness that seemed to radiate off his friend now, and the solemn topics of earlier were layered over now with something far lighter.

"I didn't want to make any assumptions or pry into your business, but goodness! Congratulations!"

"Oh hush up you, don't want to ruin the surprise." She waved a hand at him, still smiling, a genuine happiness to her face, a hint of relief even. "Ginny and I are planning to surprise my sis next week, when we all have a day off. Hell, and here I thought Charlie would've gossiped about us to you and Max at some point."

"She's never spoken about relationships to me before, and Maxwell hasn't told me otherwise."

"Guess that's a good thing there, huh?"

"Oh, absolutely! Congrats again, I hope you two are very happy together."

"Already am, Wilson, already am."

As their conversation descended into smalltalk, now well away from darker, heavier topics, Wilson's heart grew a bit lighter. He just never had the time to talk to those he has shared companionship, survived with within the Constant, never nearly enough, and being able to just ramble to Winona about this and that was...it was refreshing.

When the other two finally came back in, drawn by the smell of the cooling cookies, Wilson was incredibly relieved to see Maxwell look so calm and relaxed. Charlie herself was smiling, full of laughter and chatter, and even when the old man eventually shifted to stand next to Wilson, ever so slightly lean into, against him, he could tell that Maxwell was having an overall pleasant time.

The thick scent of cigars the two had brought back with them mixed funny with the cookies, and Winona lightly chided her sister for having brought a half lit one in, but for the most part the rest of the evening passed simple and easy, in comfortable companionship, shared laughter, and the encompassing enjoyment of life lived together.

And Wilson, for the moment, found himself happy.


End file.
